Interrupted (based on the Sherlock Holmes movie)
Title: Interrupted
Author: MaryCushing
Fandom: Holmes/Watson
Pairing/Characters: Holmes/Watson
Rating:PG
Genre: Fictional People Slash
Word Count: 847
Summary: Watson's work is interrupted by Holmes
Author Notes: This is part one of several
Warnings:Drug use (cocaine)
Disclaimer: This is a complete and total work of fiction. This is NOT written for profit.
Written on 12/4/10 and 2/19/11.
Holmes walked away from the fight, clenching the money in his fist. The fight had only diminished his urging slightly, like an oil lamp that has been turned down just enough to still see the flame. Watson had just introduced him to his fiancée, Mary, earlier that night and Holmes had felt his world, in that one hour, shift and start to crumble.
The cocaine in his system was still racing; a touch of euphoria mixed with the anxiety of his struggle. He walked through the streets, hugging the buildings to escape from the street lights that seemed too bright tonight.
He found himself in front of Watson's door. His head connected with the wood and he slumped to the ground.
Watson, at his desk, turned toward the sound. It sounded as if someone had thrown something soft against the door. He looked at the door, listening, annoyed at the interruption. He had so much work to do! He turned back to the piles of papers that were waiting for him and that's when he heard another thud. It was softer this time, but still audible. It sounded like someone knocked once on his door with a heavy glove covered hand. With a sigh, he pushed his chair away from his desk and walked toward the door. That's when he heard his name slurred from the other side of the door. "Watzn" Watson stopped and closed his eyes. Bright red explosions of anger flashed in front of them. It never ceased to amaze him how selfish Holmes could be. Holmes knew Tuesday nights were Watson's time to work on his medical cases. To do so he could NOT be interrupted. Anger and the piles of paperwork on his desk shouted at Watson to turn from the door and ignore Holmes. This should be easy, he thought, his eyes still closed; just ignore him and he will go away. It was then that Watson realized Holmes hadn't tried to come in. A closed door never stopped him before. Something was wrong. He crossed the room in two giant steps, and with the anger still riding him, he flew open the door. His eyes met empty space. He quick looked down. Nothing could prepare him for what he saw. A hint of Holmes was sitting on the floor naked from the waist up. White flesh was streaked in blood. This man looked up at Watson. One eye was beginning to swell and dried blood painting his nostrils a deep mahogany. "I have your winnings." the creature croaked, lifting his right hand to show Watson what looked like crumbled paper money that was speckled in mahogany.
Watson crouched down to face Holmes. The red explosions behind his eyes ran away as his concern for this man in front of him grew. He reached for Holmes' face.
"Don't." Holmes pleaded.
"Holmes," Watson insisted, "You're bleeding, and by the looks of it, from the back of your head.
Watson's crouch turned into a kneel and he leaned toward Holmes, reaching out for his head. The a wave of body odor and sweat hit him like a slap in the face. He grimaced but did not hesitate. Gentle, knowing fingers, searched for the wound.
"AHHH!" reverberated in his ears as his finger made contact with a sticky, wet mound at the back of Holmes' head.
"Holmes," Watson said, "we need to get you to a hospital."
"No." Holmes replied, meeting Watson's eyes. "I just need a good doctor." Watson bit his lower lip. The wound was superficial, but it would take a while for it to heal. Watson knew Holmes was bleeding faster than normal. He guessed because Holmes had probably had cocaine in his system. Watson knew it was pointless to argue with Holmes. He reached out with both arms, "Let's get you inside."
"You'll get blood on your shirt!" Holmes informed Watson.
"It wouldn't be the first time," Watson reminded Holmes.
Watson led Holmes inside and to the sofa. "You need to sit up to help stop the blood, he said, propping pillows up behind Holmes' back to make sure he wouldn't lie down.
"Hmmmm," Holmes replied, squinting at Watson through his good eye.
"I'll clean your head wound," Watson said, as he took the money from Holmes' still clenched hand and shoved it in his pocket.
He then turned to get the antiseptic to clean Holmes' head wound. Returning with the antiseptic, Watson said, "Let me look at your head." Holmes conceded by dropping his head down. Watson pushed apart the hair around the wound. Holmes didn't protest as Watson cleaned the area.
When he was done, Watson stepped back from Holmes."You're filthy. You need a bath."
"No," Holmes argued, "I just need a drink."
Watson knew Holmes said this just to irritate him. Ignoring the stupid comment, Watson walked into the other room and started a bath. A cyclone of feelings enveloped Watson as he watched the hot liquid pour out in front of him. Why was it when Holmes was in his presence all his responsibilities went out the window?
Author: MaryCushing
Fandom: Holmes/Watson
Pairing/Characters: Holmes/Watson
Rating:PG
Genre: Fictional People Slash
Word Count: 847
Summary: Watson's work is interrupted by Holmes
Author Notes: This is part one of several
Warnings:Drug use (cocaine)
Disclaimer: This is a complete and total work of fiction. This is NOT written for profit.
Written on 12/4/10 and 2/19/11.
Holmes walked away from the fight, clenching the money in his fist. The fight had only diminished his urging slightly, like an oil lamp that has been turned down just enough to still see the flame. Watson had just introduced him to his fiancée, Mary, earlier that night and Holmes had felt his world, in that one hour, shift and start to crumble.
The cocaine in his system was still racing; a touch of euphoria mixed with the anxiety of his struggle. He walked through the streets, hugging the buildings to escape from the street lights that seemed too bright tonight.
He found himself in front of Watson's door. His head connected with the wood and he slumped to the ground.
Watson, at his desk, turned toward the sound. It sounded as if someone had thrown something soft against the door. He looked at the door, listening, annoyed at the interruption. He had so much work to do! He turned back to the piles of papers that were waiting for him and that's when he heard another thud. It was softer this time, but still audible. It sounded like someone knocked once on his door with a heavy glove covered hand. With a sigh, he pushed his chair away from his desk and walked toward the door. That's when he heard his name slurred from the other side of the door. "Watzn" Watson stopped and closed his eyes. Bright red explosions of anger flashed in front of them. It never ceased to amaze him how selfish Holmes could be. Holmes knew Tuesday nights were Watson's time to work on his medical cases. To do so he could NOT be interrupted. Anger and the piles of paperwork on his desk shouted at Watson to turn from the door and ignore Holmes. This should be easy, he thought, his eyes still closed; just ignore him and he will go away. It was then that Watson realized Holmes hadn't tried to come in. A closed door never stopped him before. Something was wrong. He crossed the room in two giant steps, and with the anger still riding him, he flew open the door. His eyes met empty space. He quick looked down. Nothing could prepare him for what he saw. A hint of Holmes was sitting on the floor naked from the waist up. White flesh was streaked in blood. This man looked up at Watson. One eye was beginning to swell and dried blood painting his nostrils a deep mahogany. "I have your winnings." the creature croaked, lifting his right hand to show Watson what looked like crumbled paper money that was speckled in mahogany.
Watson crouched down to face Holmes. The red explosions behind his eyes ran away as his concern for this man in front of him grew. He reached for Holmes' face.
"Don't." Holmes pleaded.
"Holmes," Watson insisted, "You're bleeding, and by the looks of it, from the back of your head.
Watson's crouch turned into a kneel and he leaned toward Holmes, reaching out for his head. The a wave of body odor and sweat hit him like a slap in the face. He grimaced but did not hesitate. Gentle, knowing fingers, searched for the wound.
"AHHH!" reverberated in his ears as his finger made contact with a sticky, wet mound at the back of Holmes' head.
"Holmes," Watson said, "we need to get you to a hospital."
"No." Holmes replied, meeting Watson's eyes. "I just need a good doctor." Watson bit his lower lip. The wound was superficial, but it would take a while for it to heal. Watson knew Holmes was bleeding faster than normal. He guessed because Holmes had probably had cocaine in his system. Watson knew it was pointless to argue with Holmes. He reached out with both arms, "Let's get you inside."
"You'll get blood on your shirt!" Holmes informed Watson.
"It wouldn't be the first time," Watson reminded Holmes.
Watson led Holmes inside and to the sofa. "You need to sit up to help stop the blood, he said, propping pillows up behind Holmes' back to make sure he wouldn't lie down.
"Hmmmm," Holmes replied, squinting at Watson through his good eye.
"I'll clean your head wound," Watson said, as he took the money from Holmes' still clenched hand and shoved it in his pocket.
He then turned to get the antiseptic to clean Holmes' head wound. Returning with the antiseptic, Watson said, "Let me look at your head." Holmes conceded by dropping his head down. Watson pushed apart the hair around the wound. Holmes didn't protest as Watson cleaned the area.
When he was done, Watson stepped back from Holmes."You're filthy. You need a bath."
"No," Holmes argued, "I just need a drink."
Watson knew Holmes said this just to irritate him. Ignoring the stupid comment, Watson walked into the other room and started a bath. A cyclone of feelings enveloped Watson as he watched the hot liquid pour out in front of him. Why was it when Holmes was in his presence all his responsibilities went out the window?